A Day in the Life of Germany
by Optimistically-Hopeless
Summary: A story of all that Germany has to deal with while taking care of Italy. More or less just a story of cuteness. :3 Rated T mostly just because it's Hetalia. XD


So. This is my first fan fiction in probably about five years. I had forgotten just how much fun it is to play with characters! Plus, I haven't found a show that I love this much in such a long time. So, just some quick disclaimers before someone decides to sue me. I don't own Hetalia or any of the characters in Hetalia. They are property of Hidekaz Himaruya and Funimation. Believe me, I wish I owned them… but I don't. –Sigh- Anyways, I hope you enjoy it! And please review too! Make me happy! :D

x-x-x-x-x

Germany was able to tell that Italy was right next to him even before he opened his eyes. One, through all of his training during times of war, he was able to sense when there was another presence in the room. Two, he didn't know of anyone else who would say, "Pasta," in their sleep.

His blue eyes opened to see that, indeed, Italy was sleeping on the opposite side of the bed, an idiotic smile on his face. His brown hair was frayed all around his head, his trademark curl of hair hanging just above his face. Like usual, he had taken all of the covers for himself, leaving Germany just enough so that he hadn't gotten cold enough to wake up during the night. He really didn't understand why Italy had to sleep in his bed. He had a perfectly good one at his house, didn't he? And why did he always have to wear that outrageous pink tank top when he slept? Didn't he have any respect for himself as a man? But as images of Italy with countless amounts of white flags flashed through his head, he quickly began to doubt that he had ever had any dignity to begin with.

"Italy," Germany huffed, not exactly happy sharing his bed with an unexpected guest. But, seeing that this had happened already on multiple occasions, he was only mildly irritated. "Vat are you doing in mein bed?"

Italy's brown eyes flashed open. "Say what?" he asked with his usual obnoxiously cheery voice. His eyes quickly found Germany, a huge smile spreading across his face. "Hi, Germany! How are you?"

Germany slit his eyes as he gave a defeated sigh—he couldn't get angry with Italy. He was too innocent. "I'm fine," Germany replied, pushing himself up on his arm, sending his blonde hair cascading down into his eyes. "But, really Italy, vy are you in mein bed?"

Italy's eyes stared off as he thought, a smile still spread on his face. "Huh," he said, his eyes closing. "Well, last night, I had a bad dream. So I came to sleep with you!" Germany stared at him, Italy's matter-of-fact tone taking him a little off guard. "Nobody hurts me when I'm with you!"

A slight blush crossed Germany's face. "Vell, ja," he said, "every vone's afraid of me."

"Not me!" Italy said with feeling that went through his whole being with exaggerated body movements. "You're not scary at all!"

"Vant me to be?"

Italy stopped moving as his smile was swept off his face. "Huh?"

"Get out of mein bed," Germany said, his voice like a punch to the stomach—something that Italy was all too familiar with.

"Eep!" Italy trilled as he jumped out of the bed, taking the covers with him—which didn't help improve Germany's mood.

"Italy!" Germany growled as he jumped up, trying to snatch the covers back. Knowing Italy, he was probably going to get them messy and all over the house. He had finally gotten his house cleaned up from Italy's last stay, so he was not going to let Italy have his way again.

"Waah!" Italy cried, doing what he was best at as he retreated from Germany. "I'm sorry, Germany, I'm sorry! Please don't kill me!"

"Dummkopf, I'm not going to kill you!" Germany said, trying to keep up with Italy. He was always so amazed at just how fast he could run away from a threat when he was scared. "You're going to mess up my sheets!"

Apparently, Italy was so scared out of his little mind that he didn't hear a single word that Germany had said. Either that, or he was just screaming too loud to hear him. In a last ditch effort, Germany launched himself in the air after the pathetic screaming Italy. He heard Italy let out a sad little cry as his arms wrapped around his waist and was shoved to the ground by the force of Germany's hit.

"Calm down, Italy," Germany said, keeping a firm grip on him, feeling him trying to get away as he flailed about.

"Germany, I'm your friend!" Italy whimpered, still trying to escape. "I'm sorry I suck so much! Please don't hurt me!"

Germany gave a sigh, rolling his eyes at Italy's pitifulness. "I'm not going to hurt you, dummkopf," he said in the best reassuring tone he could pull off.

"Tackling me kind of hurt," Italy complained as he somewhat lessened his attempts to get away.

"Vell, if you had stopped, I vouldn't have had to tackle you!" Germany argued.

Italy went silent as he finally became still. "Sorry," he said sadly as huge tears fell from his eyes. _Ugh, again vith the tears_, Germany thought. When he had first met Italy in World War One, he had thought that this was the most disgraceful thing he had seen, a grown man crying. But as he had gotten to know him better, he just knew to constantly expect tears to be a normal occurrence.

"Just give me back mein sheets," Germany said, averting his eyes away from Italy's crying face. Italy smiling was just obnoxious. But Italy crying was actually painful for Germany to look at. Not that he'd ever let Italy know this of course.

"Okay," Italy mumbled as he began to unwrap the sheets tangled around him. Germany, trusting that Italy wouldn't try to get away again, sat up as he released him from his grasp. Italy also sat up as he continued to try to neaten out the sheets. But even with his attempts, Germany looked at the condition of the sheets and cringed inwardly—he was definitely going to have to wash them later on. Stupid Italy.

"Here," Italy said, wiping some remnants of tears off his face as he handed Germany the crumpled sheets. "Sorry I made a mess… again."

Germany took the sheets back as he continued to watch Italy. He just sat there on his knees, bright pink tank top and yellow boxers just as obnoxious as ever. His brown hair was even messier now, his one curl almost hidden by his mane. Germany wondered how he could just surrender so easily—if he was caught, he'd give up almost immediately, not even try to fight back. He tried to wonder where Italy would be if it wasn't for him—and shuddered. He wouldn't doubt it if Italy would have been killed by now if it weren't for him.

"It's okay, Italy," Germany said, gently patting him on the head. "I'm sorry that I had to tackle you."

Italy looked up at him, a blank look on his face. Germany looked back at him curiously—was it really that odd of an occurrence for him to apologize? Then Italy suddenly became his normal self again. "Aah, it's okay, Germany!" he said, happiness exuding from him. "I was being a stupid face, so I deserved it!" He started laughing in the way that made Germany want to hit him, but, seeing as he had just apologized for attacking him, he figured he should avoid harming him again.

"Italy," Germany said. Italy's laugh trailed off as he looked at him to show that he was paying attention. "How many… How many people have tried to hurt you?"

Italy looked at him as he tilted his head. "Huh?" he said as his eyes once again unfocused as he thought. "Well, I lost count a really long time ago! It seems like every other day, someone is trying to beat the crap out of me!" He began laughing again until he saw the look on Germany's face. "What?"

"Italy," Germany said, ruffling his brown hair, "you really need to learn how to defend yourself. You can't just let people take control of you like that. It's dangerous, und I don't vant you do get hurt."

Italy looked at him with his brown eyes, a content look on his face. "You know, Germany, you're a really nice guy when you're not killing people!" He began laughing, but stopped when Germany hit him on the top of the head.

"Dummkopf," Germany muttered as he got back on his feet.

"Hey, I know!" Italy said. "We should have pasta for breakfast! Pasta is always good!"

"Nein!" Germany said. "This is mein house, and I don't vant pasta! For breakfast, ve shall have brötchen and wurst!"

"Aw, but Germany! Wurst is so nasty!" Italy whined, jumping up. "I'm the guest, right? I should get the choice!"

"I didn't invite you, dummkopf!" Germany grumbled, poking Italy in the chest. "You crept into mein house in the middle of the night! I should shoot you!"

"Ah, you wouldn't shoot me!" Italy said, bouncing up and down happily. Then he stilled for a second and looked at Germany carefully. "You wouldn't, right?"

Germany smirked. "Don't tempt me."

x-x-x-x-x

Italy was humming as he wandered around the kitchen, bouncing to and fro. After some whining, he had convinced Germany to let him cook in his kitchen. Germany had absolutely refused to eat pasta, so they had both decided that Italy could try to make one of Germany's dishes. Germany had said that he had really wanted bröchen, so Italy complied and was going to try to make some.

Standing in front of one of the counters was Germany, dish towel in hand. Italy was always amused by how much Germany loved to clean, keeping everything in his house looking shiny and new. Italy's house was always kind of messy and everything smelled strongly and deliciously of Italian seasoning. Italy did really like his house, but Germany's was really nice too! Germany never got attacked, where France and Britain and all kinds of other people always bugged him about something. Germany's house was nice and safe.

"Hey, Germany!" Italy called as he was kneading the dough. "Does this look right to you?"

Germany looked up from a table that Italy had just left, scrubbing it furiously. "Ja, that looks right," he replied, turning back to the table he was so focused on cleaning.

"Aah, that's good!" Italy cheered. He continued to knead it, checking over in his head to make sure that he had added all of the right ingredients. Then something shocking occurred to Italy. In the recipe, Germany had left out an ingredient that was absolutely essential. He reached into one of his pockets to search for the magical ingredient. A smile spread across his face as he found that, like the good Italian he was, he had remembered to bring it with him. Before Germany was able to stop him, he began to sprinkle his special Italian seasoning into the dough.

"Italy," Germany said, making him jump slightly. "Just vat are you putting into my bröchen?"

"Haa, well, I thought that I could make it better with some of my seasoning!" Italy said with a nervous smile on his face. He knew that Germany always liked to have order, so he wasn't surprised that he was kind of upset about his special seasoning being put into his recipe. But Italy knew that it was going to be so good! Germany would love it, he just knew it!

Germany stared disapprovingly at the dough, but closed his eyes with a sigh. "Vat's done is done. Just go ahead und finish it."

"Okay!" Italy said in a sing-song voice as he kneaded the seasoning into the dough. He heard Germany walking away, and he knew that he must have had an annoyed look on his face. But he knew that he'd love the end result. So he just continued on with his work, just imagining how happy Germany would be. He could just see it now…

_"Vow!" Germany will say as he takes a bite of Italy's special br__ö__chen. "This is wunderbar! Italy, you are a genius!"_

_ "Oh, thank you!" he will say as he takes a small bow. He will then smile because Germany is also smiling, something that Italy had almost never seen before. Oh, Germany will be so happy, and it will be absolutely amazing!_

_ Then Germany will be so awestruck and so happy that he'll hug Italy. At first, it will be kind of a shock to Italy, but then he'll be overjoyed because Germany has finally found his happy self. As a matter of fact, this will be the very first time that Germany will have ever been this happy—and Italy will be able to see it!_

_ Then Germany will suddenly pull a ring out from his pocket, get down on one knee and say, "Italy! Marry me!"_

Italy shook his head, trying to rid his mind of his day dream. "Whoa," Italy said, a panicked look on his face. "That was really creepy."

"Vat?"

"Aaah, nothing!" Italy cried as he got back to work. He really needed to stop letting his mind wander like that—his brain sometimes made up some of the craziest things.

Italy separated the dough into separate pieces to make the bröchen roll-sized. He looked at the pot full of water to see if it was boiling yet or not. He smiled as he saw that the water was at a full boil. He began to hum again as he picked up the first mound to put it into the water.

"Italy."

He swirled around, his head tilted slightly. "Huh?"

Germany looked at the pot of boiling water curiously. "Vat exactly are you doing?"

Italy looked behind him back at the pot. "I'm making food, right?" Italy said, a smile on his face. "You make bread just like pasta, right? With hot water!"

Italy was still smiling, but he felt Germany's eyes boring into him. "Are you a complete and utter _dummkopf_?" he yelled, making Italy almost jump out of his boots. "You don't bake bröchen in vater!"

Italy quivered, the dough squishing in his hands. "B-b-but… pasta."

For a minute, Germany just glared at him in disbelief, like he wanted to scold him even more—or maybe even throttle him. But Germany just face-palmed, shaking his head. "Vy, vy do I have to be friends vith this…" He said words that Italy guessed were in German and were probably profanities. He was suddenly kind of glad that he didn't understand that much German. "Listen, Italy," he said once he had finished with his unknown amount of foreign swearing. "You don't make bröchen vith vater. You make it in the oven."

"Oh," Italy said, now understanding. "Like I do pizza, and you did Jews!"

"Don't talk about that!" Italy laughed at how flustered Germany got, mostly because he basically never _got _flustered.

Germany gave a frustrated sigh. "You put the bröchen on a pan," he explained as he took the water from the pot and dumped it down the sink, complaining about "vasted vater." Once that was done, he turned around and opened a cupboard. "You have to spray the pan before you put it on first, or else it vill stick."

"Okay!" Italy said as he turned back to the stove top. "Germany, where do you keep your cooking spray?"

"In the shelf above the stove," Germany answered, still looking in the cupboard for the appropriate pan needed. Italy looked up to see the cupboard that Germany had referred to. He reached up to open the door, but, with a sad sigh, realized that he was too short to reach it. He turned his head to see if Germany had found what he was looking for yet, but it looked like he was still searching. Italy really didn't want to upset Germany any further, so he turned his attention back to the out-of-reach cupboard. He got onto the very tips of his toes, but found that his fingers just grazed the bottom of the door. He just needed just a tiny bit more height! Just a few more centimeters! Italy put his hand on the stove top and found two things—one, he could reach the handle of the cupboard! And two, the stovetop was still on.

"AAACK!" Italy cried out as he jumped away from the stovetop, clutching his burnt hand. Germany must have turned around to see what happened, because Italy felt himself run into his chest. "Owwie owwie owwie owwie!"

"Vat?" Germany asked, trying to push Italy away from him, "Vat's wrong?"

"Aaah, Germany!" Italy cried, feeling tears fall down his face, "Germany, it was horrible! I was trying to get the spray like you told me to, but I'm too short and I couldn't reach it because you're so tall and stuff like that, and you were busy and I didn't want to bug you cuz you were busy and I didn't want to make you mad again, so I tried to reach it and I couldn't, and then I thought that if I pushed myself up, I could get it, and I could get it but then I burned my hand and it really hurts, Germany! It really, really, really hurts, Germany!"

Italy had said all of this in a matter of about six seconds. Because of this, Germany had absolutely no idea what he had just said. "V-vat?" he asked again, utterly confused.

"My hand!" Italy said, gingerly taking it away from the cocoon he had made with his arm. "I burned my hand, Germany!" The air on the burn hurt, so Italy began to cry even more.

Germany took a hold of Italy's hand and he took a better look at the injury. Italy's palm was red with a blister or two already forming. Italy cringed at his touch, his hand pulsing with pain. "Germany…" he whined.

"Come here," Germany said, gently pulling him forward. "You need cold vater."

Just the thought of putting anything on his hand made Italy being to panic. "Germany!" Italy said as he sniffled. "Why? I'm scared, Germany! I don't want it to hurt more!"

Italy looked up at Germany through his tears when he felt him no longer pulling him forward. "Italy," Germany said with a sigh. "Do you really think that I vould ever vant to hurt you?"

He sniffled. "No," he sighed. He wiped away his tears with his good hand and looked back up at Germany. "I'm sorry."

Germany rolled his eyes, a small blush creeping over his face. "Come on," he said as he once again pulled Italy forward. This time, Italy followed while he continued to sniffle.

"Putting cold vater on a burn vill hurt, but it vill make it better," Germany said as he put Italy's hand in the sink. He then turned on the faucet, making cold water pour out over his hand. Italy immediately flinched, more tears building up in his eyes. "Aah, Germany!" he whimpered, grabbing ahold of Germany's shirt. Germany looked down at his hand for a second as if he wanted to smack it off his freshly ironed clothes, but he simply gave it a disapproving glance and put his attention back to Italy's burned hand.

"That should be enough," Germany said as he turned off the faucet. "Now ve have to dry it und bandage it."

"It does feel better!" Italy said, a small smile on his face. Italy felt tears still in his eyes, so he quickly wiped them away to make his smile actually convincing. His hand _did_ feel better, but it still hurt too… a lot. As they walked to Germany's bathroom, he really hoped that Germany would be gentle while drying his hand. Italy hadn't been able to take a good look at his hand yet, and he was really scared. What if the skin was falling off? What if his skin was all black? _What if he lost his hand?_

"Waaah, Germany!" Italy cried, now terrified beyond all belief. "Germany, is my hand going to live? I really like my hand! Hands are really helpful! I don't want to lose my hand!"

Germany gave him a pitiful look. "Dummkopf," he said. "It's just a burn. Your hand vill be fine."

"Are you sure?" Italy asked, still scared to think of being only one-handed. "I don't know how I'd ever do pasta with only one hand… That'd be hard!"

"Ja, Italy. I'm sure."

Italy smiled. "Whew! I'm glad! I like this hand! My hand is handy! Haha, handy, Germany, get—" He quickly stopped talking when he saw Germany's expression, and just settled for laughing at his little pun.

When they arrived in Germany's bathroom, he had Italy sit down on the edge of the tub and dry his hand while Germany got the needed bandages. Italy did his usual humming and singing about weird things like pasta and pretty girls. Meanwhile, Germany was wondering why his only friend had to be someone who was always so stupidly accident prone.

"Put your hand out," Germany said as he brought all of the supplies needed over to where Italy sat.

"Okie-dokie!" Italy said happily, his stupid smile back to full force. His hand still hurt as he put it out, but it was much better than having it chopped off.

Suddenly, Germany pulled out a knife.

"AAAH, GERMANY!" Italy screamed, bringing his hand back. "You said I didn't have to lose my hand! Please don't cut it off, please, please, please!" Italy saw Germany's mouth move, but he didn't hear what he said over his own pleas. "Please, please, please don't cut it off! I have so many good memories of this hand! I've done so much with it! Please don't cut it—"

"MEIN GOTT, SHUT UP!" Germany yelled back, making Italy lose his balance and fall into the tub. He saw stars as his head hit the floor, a little "eep" sound escaping him.

"Please don't chop off my hand," Italy said weakly.

"Dummkopf," Germany growled, pulling Italy back up by the collar. "I'm not going to chop off your hand! I couldn't find scissors, so I got a knife to cut the gauze."

Italy stared at him for a moment, his head kind of hurting. "Oh," he said, rubbing the back of his head with his good hand. "Haa, well, that makes sense! Why didn't you say so before?"

"Italy, if you don't shut up, I just might stab you in the throat."

"Haa," Italy laughed, but said nothing else. Germany could be really weird sometimes!

"Now, sit still so I can take care of your hand, dummkopf," Germany said as he released his collar.

"Okay," Italy said, putting his hand out once again. Germany cut off a section of gauze and set it off to the side. He then grabbed a medicine tube, opened it and squeezed out a dab of it on one of his fingers. Italy jumped when Germany spread the cream on his hand, but the pain in his hand instantly began to dull. Once it was spread all around the burn, Germany put the gauze on his palm and then grabbed a roll of medical tape.

"Better?" Germany asked as he wrapped tape around his hand.

"Yeah!" Italy cheered. "Haa, and now my hand looks like a mummy!"

Germany gave a sigh. "Ja. It sure does, Italy. It sure does."

"Oh, we need to finish the bread, Germany!" Italy said, about to jump up.

"Nein, I vill," Germany said, pushing him back down. "You're being too much of a nuisance as it is. Und after vat happened, I vouldn't be surprised if you killed yourself."

"Aw, don't be silly, Germany!" Italy said, trying to get up again, and was once again shoved back down by Germany's hand.

"You can vatch me," Germany said as he finished up bandaging his hand. "Besides, you can't touch the dough now. Not vith your hand bandaged."

Italy's head drooped. "Aw, fine, Germany," he pouted. "You're such a meanie."

"Are you dead yet?"

"Huh? No…"

"Then I've been pretty patient today vith you. Be grateful. If any vone else had done anything this stupid, I vould have killed them already."

"Aah, Germany, you're so funny," Italy said waving his bandaged hand. He was happy that Germany was his friend—he could scare mean people away, and he could help him feel better! Sure, he could be really violent and antisocial sometimes, but at least he didn't always try to kill him all the time! Germany just showed love and affection through yelling and hitting! And with Germany yelling at him all the time, that meant Germany really liked him, right?

Right?

x-x-x-x-x

"Germany!" Italy said, looking outside. "It's really dark, Germany! I don't want to go home when it's dark! It looks real scary!"

Germany was doing his utmost best _not_ to strangle Italy. "If you had gone home when I'd told you to, it vouldn't be dark." Ever since they had finished eating the Italian bröchen—which, to Germany's dismay, hadn't been all that bad—he had been telling Italy to go home. But Italy would always literally run into something, or see something shiny that would distract him. Germany's house was once again a mess that he'd have to spend hours cleaning up, and now Italy wanted to stay the night. Again.

"Aw, but Germany! Sleep overs are fun!" Italy said as he bounced up and down. "We should do something fun! Like eat pasta! Or pizza! Or find some pretty girls!"

"Nein," Germany said, far past the point of frustration. "Just go home, Italy."

"Aw, but home is so far away, Germany!" Italy whined. "Why can't I just stay at your house tonight? We could really have fun, you know!"

"I don't vant to have fun," Germany said, holding his face in his hand, trying to keep his headache at bay. "All I vant to do is sleep. You have made me very exhausted, und I vant to rest."

Italy stopped his bouncing for a moment, looking at Germany carefully. "Okay," he said. "Well, I could still just sleep here tonight! We don't have to have a party or anything! I could stay really quiet if you wanted me to! You wouldn't believe how quiet I could be! I can be so quiet that not even you would notice I was there! I can be so super quiet that—"

"_Italy_!"

He saw Italy jump at the severity in his voice. "Huh?" Italy said, a concerned note in his voice.

"I don't vant to deal with you anymore," Germany said, still holding his face, barely even looking at him. "You are very irritating, and I am so sick of you. Please. Just leave."

For a long time, Italy didn't say anything. Germany didn't even hear him move or twitch like he usually did. He was absolutely still. "Oh," he said, his voice small. "I'll… I'll leave then." Germany looked up just enough to peer at Italy. His expression was one that Germany had never seen on him—it was one of absolutely nothing.

For the first time ever, Italy was hiding his emotions.

Italy turned around and began to shuffle towards the door. "Sorry," he said, his voice sincere. "I won't bug you anymore."

Germany watched him walk away, and suddenly wanted to yell, not at Italy, but himself. Italy was the only friend he had, and here he was, telling him to leave, telling him that he was sick of him. And Italy, for once in his life, was actually listening to him. He was leaving.

Of course he had to listen when Germany would actually regret it.

He let out a frustrated sigh—he couldn't get what he wanted at all today, could he? "Italy," he said, brushing his blonde hair back for the hundredth time that day. "Vait."

Italy came to a stop, but he didn't turn around. He turned his head enough to peer over his shoulder. Just by doing that, Germany could already tell that he was crying.

"Italy." Germany walked up to him, and Italy immediately turned to face him. Huge tears were in his eyes, but he looked like he was still trying to conceal his true emotions. Germany gave a sad sigh as he placed his hand on top of Italy's head. "I'm sorry," he said, averting his eyes from Italy's tears. "I'm sorry for saying that I vas sick of you. I vas… being a dummkopf." He ruffled his brown hair, making his one curl bounce. "Now please, stop vith the crying. I really hate it ven you cry."

Italy stood there for a moment, just staring at him. Then he suddenly just started crying even more. "Oh, Germany!" he said as he tackled him, wrapping his arms around Germany. Germany was startled, his first instinct being to shove Italy off of him. But as he looked down him to see him burying his face in his chest, soaking his shirt with his tears, he couldn't bring himself to do such a thing. "I told you to stop crying," Germany muttered as he laid his hand on top of Italy's head.

Italy could be a pain sometimes. Actually, he was a pain all the time. But, no matter how annoying or obnoxious he was, Germany was still grateful that he at least had a friend. He was a wimp who couldn't defend himself at all. But that was why Germany was there—to protect him.

If nothing else, he was at least happy to do that.

x-x-x-x-x

- Aww, Germany and Italy cuteness. :3 I really hope you guys liked it! Please tell me what you thought about it! :D Thanks for reading!


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